journeys of a restless mind

In honor of the last day of poetry month

        Something from Pablo Neruda

Ode to Sadness

Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton:
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.        

Have I mentioned that it hurts, this cracking open?  It does.  No matter how careful I am, wild bits of longing come rushing out.  When they go unsatisfied, they bite.  But the process can't be stopped now.  I don't want to stop it.  Like everything else, I just have to sit with it.  Whoever thought being still would be so hard?

the stuff inside

The problem with cracking something open is that you can't just smash it; the thing inside is too fragile, too precious.  You have to work carefully to pry open the hard shell, you have to work slowly and methodically. That soft tender stuff it protected is alive and pulsing and utterly unpredictable.  It is also hungry and wants to grow.  But you can't just unleash it on the world.  You have to guide it using everything you've learned.  It takes a lot of patience.

Meanwhile you can feel it fluttering in your chest.  If you let down your guard it pulls you along to some place you hadn't meant to go.  It is prone to flights of fancy and obsession.  You must not let it have its way.  You are wise enough to know that will lead to more pain and you might have to start all over again. But you still have to listen to it, let its pulse whisper to you. Then, you keep it on the path.  You go forward together, one step at a time.

this & that

I'm writing an article for the local paper, the first time I've attempted this while also working full time.  It's challenging, and a bit more stressful than I'd like, but I'll be happy to see my byline in print again.

A cold front is heading our way from Alaska and they are expecting record cold temperatures and maybe some snow.  Never, in my many decades of living in this part of the world, has it snowed in April or even threatened to.  Hrmph.

Meanwhile, the rest of my family is in Florida boating around the Gulf of Mexico and drinking mojitos.  You can imagine how I feel about that.

This week's NOVA episode was about a group of sedentary folk that they gather togther to train for the Boston Marathon.  Of the thirteen, only one drops out before the race because she keeps getting stress fractures in her shins.  The remaining twelve ALL finish the marathon.  This is a group who, with one exception, had VO2 max ratings of "fair" or "poor" when they started training.  In other words, folks like me. I was very moved.

this pretty much says it all

Please note: gorgeous weather, big smile, ability to hold massive oar upright with only one hand.  It was a fabulous day, and I realize more than ever how much I love being out on the water. 

three little things

Our staff longboat adventure is today.  I am happy to report that it is not currently pouring down rain, and in fact the sun seems to be poking through the clouds quite nicely.  This solves anxiety provoking issue number one (though of course, it could start raining at any moment).  Anxiety provoking issue number two involves the lack of restroom facilities of any kind upon the longboats.  They are quite charming, and historically accurate (you do know that this is the type of boat which Capt. Vancouver and crew used to explore Puget Sound, doncha?) and I've been wanting to get out on one since I started working

for this organization. However, I don't think I'd thoroughly contemplated the horror that is being out to sea with one's co-workers and really really having to go.  I have heard a bucket will be supplied for such emergencies, but I think I'd rather pitch myself overboard than sit upon a bucket to pee in front of almost anyone, much less my colleagues from work.  I seriously considered making a stop at the incontinence aisle at my local grocery store in preparation for this day, but I couldn't quite manage that, either.

Finally we have anxiety provoking issue number three which involves my upper body strength, or lack thereof.  Even though in the foto above you see those happy folks sailing a longboat, I have a feeling that we will be spending the day rowing our longboat around the bay.  The oars weigh quite a bit more than Hijo, I'm told, and the last thing I pulled with any effectiveness was the door to the coffee shop.  I'll be entering a world where nobody cares about your writing skills or your nice phone voice or even your ability to persuade folks to become members of our fine organization. (Hey, y'all should become members and support on-the-water educational programs for middle and high school kids - click here to join!)

Despite these anxiety provoking issues, I am really excited about doing something different today, about interacting with the real world, the wind and the water and the sky, to be experiencing something that isn't filtered through a window or a computer screen.  I'm glad to get the chance to face those anxieties and find they might not be quite so big and scary as I think. Perhaps best of all, I get to pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch!

I can hear the rain on the roof, in the gutters, falling.  The grass grows faster than I can keep it mowed.  I still don't know what the hell I'm doing.  I'm easily distracted by the shiny things on the side of the road.  I can't seem to tell what is real.  And all the things I want shimmer there off in the distance, impossible to reach.

variation on a theme

la leche

Hijo has returned from foreign lands.  In fact, he is thinking of moving there because he had so much fun.  Don't tell his dad, but he is referring to Canada.

"Hey mom," he said this morning.  "What does 'light' mean?"

"Light?" I replied.  "You know what 'light' means."

"Yeah, but I want to see if you know."

Confused, I tried to give my explanation of light.

"No, no, no, no," he corrected me. "L-A-I-T."

Ah, milk.  I corrected his pronunciation to the best of my non-French speaking ability.  I asked him if he had learned some French during his trip to Victoria. 

"No, not really," he said. "But I saw "lait" on a carton and figured that it must mean milk." 

That's my boy.

The tide rises and falls; things are revealed and then hidden again, changed by the water, by the waves. Flesh washes away or gets eaten. The bones turn white. The clouds gather and darken and let loose their rain.

The sidewalk steams in the sun.  The mist rises then settles on the leaves and the buds and the petals. The drops shake loose in the wind.

The water hisses on the stove then turns the beans into coffee.  The sugar melts as the spoon swirls around. The rain turns to hail beating on the roof. I close my eyes and listen.